May 15, 2013 · 2:47 pm

Normal

I’m sick of the cold weather. I can’t wait for summer to get here.

I want to go to the lake, to the beach, to the park for a picnic. I want to pick flowers and go to Barton Springs and the splash parks again…

Fuck, it’s too hot to do anything.

Summer is never going to end.

I just want to unpack my sweat pants and eat soup all day. I want to cover my leg and arm skin and trade this salad for mashed potatoes.

Every year with the weather and the food.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting…for what I’m not sure. The perfect set of conditions where I’ll finally be happy I guess.

Julia Cameron encourages a practice in writing called Morning Pages. I do this. First thing in the morning, I sit down and either handwrite or type whatever comes to mind.

I'll take the ten pack of no whining, please. Credit: shopwaze.com

I’ll take the ten pack of no whining, please. Credit: shopwaze.com

I call them my Whiny Pages. I rarely read back on them after I close the page because it is mostly just a stream of negativity and hurt feelings. It’s a safe place where I can vent, be a downer, and complain. It helps prevent me from unleashing that on people throughout my days. It helps put things in perspective. Because when you write down the feelings you have, you can see how ridiculous some of them are. You can also sort through the ones that are valid and need real attention.

I don’t love having this inner monologue written down, and I’d like to create some kind of burn sequence so that upon my passing, all of these pages will be destroyed. I don’t think anyone ever needs to have access to my unfiltered thoughts.

One of the biggest things I complain about in whiny pages is my routine. My normal. The boring parts of life, where I chafe from the life of a stay at home mom. The perceived loss of identity. The way people dismiss me. The sameness of each and every day. Pages and pages of insecurities.

Last week, I was sick with a sinus infection and bronchitis.

I didn’t do much of anything except try to breathe and sleep with a humidifier next to me. My daughter was bored. She watched a lot of television.

By day two of it, I was begging to be back to the normal I waste so much time complaining about.

The way I’d taken something as simple as breathing for granted became appalling to me.

My ingratitude–stark, ugly, and silently screaming from those pages.

I almost burned them all right then.

Then we got some bad news from a family member, and we went to visit them this past weekend.

The cancer is back. He started a new round of chemo Monday. The co-pay is almost unmanageable on a fixed income. The side effects predicted are debilitating. This treatment will last 16 weeks and then they’ll see.

He’s been fighting for ten years. This is another battle. They don’t know how it will go, but I know he and his wife would welcome my “normal” with a warm embrace–a visit from an old friend they probably don’t even recognize anymore.

I know I’ll lose and find this perspective over and over again for the rest of my life, and it borders on cliché to tell you to be thankful for whatever your normal might be today, but I’m hoping I can hold on a little longer to it this time.

I’m trying to finish this post, and my daughter is holding a pair of tweezers in my face and screaming, “Squeezers!”

That’s a normal morning, and for today at least, I have no complaints.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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May 1, 2013 · 2:29 pm

Gone Muddin’

The weather was cool when my cousin came to visit that year.

After a rainy day, he and my brother were getting ready to take the Jeep out mudding, a past time I never really understood because the chore of washing the vehicle seemed to outweigh the fun, but even without testosterone to guide me, I wanted to go with them.

My oldest brother is nine years older than me, and that age difference worked to my advantage when I was trying to tag along. He indulged me, even though at 16 or 17, I really doubt either of them wanted my company.

We all hopped in the Jeep and drove out into the pasture. Rag top removed, and music turned up loud. I don’t remember the cassette that was loaded so I’m going with Quiet Riot.

♫ Bang Your Head ♫

credit:

credit: cardomain.com

We came to a ditch that was full of rain water, and with the help of four-wheel drive, made it safely across it–then we got stuck.

Reverse, forward, reverse. Mud spitting up on all sides, splashing all over my face in the backseat, as our attempts to break free only buried the wheels deeper.

My brother was getting upset; he didn’t want to go back up to the house and tell dad he’d gotten the Jeep stuck again. But we had a tractor and chains to pull it free, and I’m pretty sure my dad had pulled every teenage boy in our family and extended family out of the same situation at one time or another. He’d even been stuck a few times himself, so I wasn’t worried.

Everyone got out of the Jeep and I was nominated to walk home and get help.

I was the only girl in our family so dad didn’t get as mad at me, and by the time we got back down there, he would have curbed most of his anger and rebuke.

The only problem was that I didn’t want to wade back through the ditch full of rain water we’d just crossed. I was trying not to be prissy in front of my cousin, but I really didn’t want to get my shoes and jeans muddy.

We carefully considered the problem, and the best solution we could come up with was for the two boys to toss me across the ditch where I would land safely, dry and mud free. With my cat-like landing skills, it was the only way this brilliant plan could possibly play out.

So one grabbed my arms, the other grabbed my legs, and they started swinging me.

“We’ll go on three, Chelle.”

“1, 2, 3…”

The release was solid, but at the top of my arch I saw with clarity how it would all play out.

I landed with a thud in the middle of the mud puddle, and immediately began to howl with outrage.

I looked back at the bank and the boys were bent over clutching their stomachs and rolling with laughter, which pissed me off even more.

I made a face that would rival any grumpy cat photo today, and stomped out of the water with the indignation and stink eye only a seven-year old girl can muster.

My walk home was huffy and pouty, but I broke the news to my dad and got to ride next to him on the green John Deere, vicariously saving the day as the chains were attached and the Jeep finally pulled free from the hole we’d dug for ourselves.

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April 23, 2013 · 4:57 pm

The Red Wasp and the Stetson

I woke up early and shimmied into the only pair of jeans I’d packed that summer. I didn’t have a pair of boots and my only concern was that he wouldn’t let me ride without a proper heel on my shoes.

I stood on the porch of my grandmother’s house.

Waiting.

I hopped up the cement steps and back down again dodging the wasps and yellow jackets that occasionally buzzed around me. I walked up the red dirt driveway to the first gate, then turned around and kicked rocks back to the house. My ears strained at the country silence, confident that the deafening sound of nothing would soon give way to the roar of his truck approaching.

My uncle promised we’d ride horses, and I believed him.

I didn’t give a second thought to the drink in his hand the night before.

They were all drinking.

The sickly, sweet smell that came from his breath and his skin seemed as normal to me as dodging the red tip of the cigarette he was never quite aware of when I went in for a hug.

I knew he liked to sleep late, and sometimes he got sick and didn’t show up when he said he would, but for the most part, my faith in him was still intact. With childish optimism I ignored the repeated warnings from my family not to get my hopes up too high.

My only understanding of the word alcoholic at the time was to never sneak sips of his morning orange juice because it burned and tasted like hairspray. If Uncle Vernon had it, in my mind, addiction couldn’t be all bad, and probably just meant hilarious and fun.

The hours passed and I wanted them back.

I kept listening for him, but I let go of the idea of riding that day and went inside to stand under the swamp coolers. It was too late, too hot to do anything. The poodles started their serenade of yippy barks just as my resignation sank in completely.

I ran outside to greet him, brushing away the red wasp that followed me to his truck. I yanked the door open for him and greeted him too loudly according to the grimace on his face.

As he stepped out, he picked me up into a hug and I grabbed the Stetson off his head. I tried it on like all young girls do, but instead of admiring my cuteness, he set me down abruptly and started walking toward the house.

The wasp buzzed by me again, and I flicked at it with the hat.

“Be careful with that, Rachelle. That’s my nice Stetson. Here, let me have it.”

My face fell at his brusque tone, and I started to hand it back.

Before he could take it from me, the red wasp landed and hunched its poison into my outstretched hand. I shrieked in pain and flung his white Stetson straight into the rust colored mud.

“Goddamnit, kid.”

I quickly grabbed the hat out of the puddle and tried to wipe the stains away. He snatched it away from me and walked inside. Furious.

Hungover, cursing, and furious.

As he drove away a while later, without mentioning the horses at all, it never even occurred to me that he didn’t remember–his promise probably lost to the swirl of a blackout as soon as the words were uttered.

I was being punished for not being tough enough and dropping his hat.

I let him down.

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April 18, 2013 · 3:16 pm

Unacceptable Kiosk Tactics

Summer is coming.

If Game of Thrones was set in Texas, that would be the only acceptable tag line.

I started packing away my cold weather cookie pants this week, and I tried on a few pairs of my shorts yesterday before deciding that I need new shorts–my winter chub came in full and fluffy this year, and obviously I dried everything on Shrinky Dink setting before packing them away a few months ago.

Since my pregnancy, I’ve slowly started to accept that I’m left with a Gap body.

Their jeans are about the only brand that fit my lower half now, and in the interest of one-stop shopping I get most of my shirts there too.

So it was not intentional and I was not being ironic yesterday when I walked to my car and realized I was dressed from head to toe in clothes from the Gap–headed out to buy more clothes from the Gap.

Gaptastic.

The only thing that made me feel better about being their walking billboard was that I was going to the outlet mall.

Discount Gap.

I was hopeful that they’d done new things in shorts this year, and I wouldn’t be left with two style options, cheeks out, lady bits playing peek-a-boo length or grab a shovel, we’re going clam digging length, but alas, it does not seem that fashion has changed recently.

A nice plum color here available at Old Navy while supplies last. credit: bundyology.com

A nice plum color here available at Old Navy and grandma’s closet while supplies last. credit: bundyology.com

I’ve really tried to embrace capris as an after 30, shorts alternative but I always feel like Peggy Bundy when I put them on.

Always.

Now that they come in a variety of Easter egg colors, I’m really tempted to just dye my hair red, drag out an 80s belt or Unit, purchase a few pairs of skin-tight jegging capris including a leopard print, swap Peggy’s stilettos for a ballet flat, and charge a Bump-It on backorder with QVC.

My hair is ideally suited for bouffant anyway, so I might as well get on board with this throw back style before another one that I hate even more comes along.

We pulled into the parking lot at the outlet mall, and I loaded my daughter into her stroller, knowing that she wouldn’t stay there long.

After trying on some shorts in my “maybe I can find something that fits that isn’t from the Gap,” store, she demanded loudly to be allowed to walk, and I complied.

Now she’s pushing her own stroller around this store with her bag of goldfish as the terrified passenger, crashing into my ankles every other step, and shouting, “No, MINE!” every time I tried to help her guide the thing in the right direction.

She’s really good at being two, what can I say?

I was ready to give up and head back to the car, but we came for the Gap, so we were going to the effin’ Gap.

We made our way toddler speed toward our final destination, and I noticed a new Carnival Cruise kiosk ahead next to the Crocs outlet.

Location, location, location.

I’m not a cruise person to begin with, but after Carnival’s recent brand killing headlines, I gave the kiosk a wide berth, and put on my not interested face.

The woman working the kiosk was not deterred, and as we approached I watched her pull something out from under her counter.

What the shit, lady?

Bubbles?!?!??

She smirked at me, and started blowing bubbles in my daughter’s direction.

Like most children, my daughter loves bubbles. She gets excited about the bubbles on my screen saver, and tries to pop them on tv. She goes ape shit for real bubbles and that’s exactly what happened when she saw them.

Abandoned, toppled over stroller, beeline for the Carnival Bubble lady.

I tried to be annoyed, but honestly, I just stood in awe of her evil genius tactics.

There was no way any person with a child in tow would be able to avoid her kiosk that day.

As my daughter popped every bubble she blew and started gleefully squealing, “Again, AGAIN!” at her, it was my turn to smirk. Round five came and went, and she still had not made her pitch.

You started this game, sweetie, now you get to say no more and watch her lower lip shaking as she begins to cry because, “Where did my bubbles go?!?!”

Twenty minutes later as we finally walked into the Gap and K’s tantrum began to fade away, I shook my head and realized how easy it can be to destroy a brand in my mind.

Carnival passengers being stranded for days might have faded from my memory eventually, but this bubble incident will probably stick around forever.

And I didn’t find any shorts that fit so…

Unacceptable kiosk tactics, Carnival.

Genius, but unacceptable.

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April 11, 2013 · 3:07 pm

Hell’s Bells

I was thinking about this documentary today for some reason.

My dad was big on making us sit down as a family to watch Christian documentaries and sermons, and we sat in our living room and watched this one together the year it came out.

It was released in 1989 according to Wikipedia; a date confirmed by the amazing mullets and porn stashes.

I only watched this first part again, and I can’t stop laughing.

It’s a good example of how a message like this can backfire when presented to kids and teenagers; it just made me more aware of music that was better than Tiffany, Belinda Carlisle, and the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing.

While everyone else in my youth group was throwing out their secular music in favor of an all Amy Grant collection from Colombia House, I was just learning to carefully conceal my music taste…something I still do to be honest.

credit: fanpop.com

credit: fanpop.com

I remember vividly buying the Metallica single, “Enter Sandman,” a few years later, and my brother whispering to me that it was probably satanic and I would be in trouble if dad saw it.

So I never showed my dad my Metallica CDs, or my pictures from Ozzfest, or the light sprinkling of Pantera in my workout playlists.

Say what you will about the evils of rock and roll and heavy metal, but nothing beats Pantera when you’re on a rage run.

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April 3, 2013 · 3:04 pm

My Last Post About Potty Training and Poop…I Hope

Imagine trying to explain something simple to a toddler.

Something like, “You have to hold my hand when we walk through a parking lot.”

You can visit any Target parking lot and immediately see that words are pretty ineffective at getting this point across. Kids are running around loose, adults are distracted because they just spent $200 when they went in for toilet paper only, everyone is hungry for popcorn, junior is crying as mom pulls him off the giant red balls out front that some other kid who was potty training probably just peed on…it’s chaos.

Now, imagine trying to explain to a toddler how to control pee muscles.

Squeeze?!?!

My view for the last six weeks.

My view for the last six weeks.

I haven’t been writing much lately, and that’s because for the last six weeks, we have been in, “we’re really going to do it this time, no giving up because mommy isn’t ready to deal with the mess and stress, PT boot camp.”

And potty training is terrible.

I’ve been talking about it for so long, that I almost can’t believe that K is starting to understand the concept.

Even though I swore off parenting books when she was six months old, I did buy three books about potty training because I really didn’t know what to do. Now that she’s almost got it, I can’t really explain what finally made her understand that she had control of the whole thing. It just finally started to click.

The books were largely unhelpful, set some unrealistic expectations (three-day potty training method?!), and made me feel inadequate as only a carefully written parenting book can do.

So I’ve prepared a list of my own notes on the experience:

  1. Relax, and try not to let them see how important it is to you.
  2. Prepare to be stuck at home for a while.
  3. If you aren’t the one staying home training don’t blow up the potty training bathroom before you leave for work every day. Remember those who will be sitting in your stank for most of the day.
  4. You will notice how grimy your bathrooms are because you will be sitting on the floor of yours for hours every day. Keep your cleaning supplies close at hand to pass the time.
  5. If they walk behind a couch or disappear into a closet, they are probably pooping.
  6. It’s okay to back off and try again later if you don’t think they are ready. Honestly. It’s okay.
  7. Poop on the floor is gross but part of the process. Texting pictures of accidents to your spouse with turd puns is funny, posting them on Facebook is just nasty.
  8. For comic relief, read the Story of Farts. Wonder why they are sitting in a bathtub together, just farting. This picture is so weird.

    So much wrong with this picture.

    So much wrong with this picture.

  9. Be mindful of your reactions to accidents. For example, if you say, after accident number twenty of the day, “Goddamnit!” congratulations, you have a child who will not stop saying, “goddamnit,” every time they pee their pants. I can’t stress this point enough. It does not go over well on Easter Sunday.
  10. If nothing is working, try closing the door and giving them some privacy while they sit.
  11. If you buy Dora underwear, you will walk around all day reminding your child not to poop on Dora, while secretly thinking that would be hilarious because Dora sucks.
  12. Over the top, ridiculous praise even when you’re tired. Make up cheers and songs. M&M’s are powerful motivators. Buy enough for both of you.
  13. Find something they can do while they sit. iPhones, books, coloring, throwing a ball back and forth. Whatever keeps them sitting there. If possible, pick their favorite, and only let them have this while they are on the potty.
  14. Some kids are scared of public bathrooms. Mine is not, in fact, she loves them. The dirtier the better. Bring sanitizer.
  15. Relax and understand that it is going to take more than a weekend for most kids. If you’re both crying and frustrated, put the pull-up back on and go do something fun. The potty will still be there tomorrow.

That’s about it really. There’s not much to it except to take off the diapers and let them have accidents until they understand. It’s gross, and frustrating, and easily my least favorite part of parenting so far.

If I had to pick, the three tips that I would pass on from the books I read are:

  1. Put them on the potty after meals and 40 minutes after they’ve had something to drink for the best chance of success at catching anything.
  2. Set a timer. In addition to the above, trying once an hour worked best for us. When the timer goes off, she knows it’s time to try even if she doesn’t have to go and there is less fighting.
  3. Don’t ask them if they need to go, just tell them it’s time to try. It will still probably be a power struggle. Don’t make them sit for more than five minutes at a time. Put them in loose-fitting clothes that they can at least remove on their own.

She’s still having accidents sometimes and probably will for a while, but I’m happy to say I think she’s finally getting it.

And my parenting didn’t have much to do with it.

They all get it eventually, on their own time.

Interesting fact from the book: healthy people let loose about half a cup of gas in every fart and average 2 cups of gas a day.

Interesting fact from the book: healthy people let loose about half a cup of gas in every fart and release on average 2 cups of gas a day.

So relax, buy the Fart Book, and best of luck to you.

As always, feel free to share your own stories in the comments.

I’m going to do my best to permanently retire the subject.

 

 

 

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March 22, 2013 · 3:15 pm

Do I Really Need to Say That?

My brother was killed in an accident on a country road near my family’s home a week after his sixth birthday.

I don’t open with that sentence lightly or for sympathy; it’s an important piece of my family’s history. It happened before I was born, and it shaped my family dynamic in ways that I’m still discovering. When I think about it, I feel pain for my family as they were then, and how it changed them all, but it is mixed with a feeling I don’t want to try to explain because my life might not exist if it had never happened.

It’s a complicated family landmine.

They buried him in a cemetery close to where my parents and oldest brother lived at the time, and moved to the town in which I was raised shortly after.

A few years ago, my parents discovered that someone had stolen the foot stone from his grave. It was upsetting to everyone, and the question was always, “Why? Why would someone vandalize and steal from the grave of a six-year-old boy. Why?”

There’s no good answer. It’s another example of the thoughtlessness and entitlement that prevails in our culture today.

My dad didn’t talk about it much, but when he passed away, I found a receipt in his papers indicating that he’d ordered a replacement stone. That’s the only piece of information I have to comfort my mom.

I try to imagine who could have done it. Maybe it was a group of teenagers, hanging out in the cemetery because they were bored. Maybe they had a Ouija board and were trying to conjure spirits. Maybe they thought it was a dark, cool, goth thing to do. Maybe one of them shared the same name as my brother and thought it would be awesome to have a rock with his name engraved on it. Like a street sign theft. Maybe they were drinking. Maybe they were bad at math or just didn’t bother to look at the dates on his headstone at all.

Maybe they were just little fuckers that I’d like to beat senseless.

I have to imagine that if they had noticed 1970-1976 on the headstone, they would have at least paused to think about how shitty this decision was, and how much it would hurt the people who still mourn for him and the brevity of his life.

For me, that would be the normal thought process. For others, it is obviously not.

I’ve thought about this story a lot over the last few years. I thought about it most when I was pregnant with my daughter. I sent myself into an anxiety spin worrying about all the things that I need to teach her. Wondering how I could possibly raise a child with compassion and empathy today. This is still my primary source of anxiety as a parent.

There are thousands of scenarios I’ve imagined and asked myself this same question. Is that a conversation we really need to have? Do I really need to tell her, “Stealing from cemetaries is wrong?”

And my answer is generally yes. Maybe not this exact conversation, in these exact words, but the message? Yes, I need to repeat it and demonstrate it through my own actions over and over again.

Even though the events have little connection to each other, as I’ve read the news and posts about the Steubenville verdict over the last few days, I’ve starting thinking about the foot stone again, and I have a whole new set of scenarios where I’m wondering, “Do I really need to say that?”

My answer is still yes.

Yes, I may need to sit down with my daughter and tell her that stealing from cemetaries is wrong.

I need to tell her that if she decides to explore her limits with drinking, that even though she should be safe, she really isn’t.

I need to tell her not to send pictures of her boobs and vagina to people.

I need to tell her not to be a bully.

I need to tell her and show her not to hate.

And some day, when she’s older, I have to tell her what rape is. Eventually, I have to tell her that she’s probably not ever going to be safe from people who have no regard for anyone but themselves. That she needs to protect herself, and that no matter what measures she takes to that end, she’ll never be as safe as she probably thinks she is or as safe as I want her to be. This could happen to her too. This has happened, in some form or another, to just about every woman I’ve ever known.

And I don’t want to tell her that.

But if we don’t tell her, she’ll learn it anyway. She’ll learn it from the television, from her friends, from Twitter, from kids whose parents thought, “No, that’s not something I need to say. I’ve raised a good kid, they know that.”

If I don’t have these conversations with her, if I don’t talk to her–even when it seems absurd to tell her something like that, even when she doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say about life–someone else will. Or she’ll learn it the hard way and in flashes of hindsight like her Momma.

I keep thinking about the person who stole my brother’s foot stone.

I keep thinking about these kids in Steubenville who claim they didn’t know that what they were doing was rape. Who didn’t think that humiliating and violating this girl was wrong. About adults who still don’t seem to grasp this concept either and are thinking and actually saying, “Fingering a drunk girl is not really rape.” I really want to delete that sentence because it makes me violently angry, but these are words I’ve seen this week. From adults.

I keep thinking about how fucked up everything is, and how scary it is to be raising a child right now.

Most of all, I keep thinking that no matter how obvious it seems to me (because my parents layered this message into my life again and again), it’s my job to teach her the lesson behind the words, “stealing from a cemetery is wrong.”

As parents, you know your children better than anyone.

If you find yourself wondering, “Do I really need to say that?” you probably do.

Go ahead and say it.

More importantly, show them what compassion and empathy look like on you because the world has a different message.

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